


Alley, Allez

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Feels, Gen, Prompt Fic, slice o' casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:59:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The course of Lestrade's duty doesn't always run smooth, particularly when Mr Holmes is involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alley, Allez

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **belphegor1982** , who prompted: "I would love a short story with ACD Holmes, Watson and Lestrade (other Yarders being a bonus!), with feels and dark humour if possible :o) ."

If anyone had suggested a few years ago that in the course of his duty, he might consider following a ragged street urchin into the depths of one of London’s most unsavoury districts, Inspector Lestrade would have given a scathing reply at best, and at worst reported the fool who’d said such a stupid thing for suspected drunkenness on duty.  
  
But that would have been before he’d met Mr Sherlock Holmes. And if he was being perfectly honest with himself (which Lestrade always tried to do), he wasn’t exactly acting in the course of his duty, except in the broadest possible interpretation of his oath. Specifically, the general principle of defending and preserving the lives of others even at risk of his own, for if following the scruffy lad picking his way down the filthy alley wasn’t risking his own neck, Lestrade was the King of France. And no Lestrade had even so much as a drop of royal blood in his or her veins, at least not so far as he’d ever been told.  
  
Whether the risk to his own life was really to save another…well, that remained to be seen. In one sense, he really hoped that wasn’t the case, for as much as Mr Holmes aggravated him to the last nerve, he wished no harm to the man. Less aggravating habits, yes, and better manners, Heaven help him, and assuredly less of a know-it-all superior manner; all of these things he’d wish on Mr Holmes with a vengeance. He wouldn’t even mind seeing him taken down a peg or two, if it could be done without him (or anyone else) winding up the worse for it. But actually hurt, or in danger? Not if Lestrade could help it, he wouldn’t. Well, not as far as he could prevent, anyway. God knew Mr Holmes put himself in danger’s way often enough of his own accord, and he’d gotten himself banged up more than once, to hear Dr Watson tell it. (Not that Dr Watson volunteered the information so much as nearly blistered the wallpaper off the walls with his swearing that one time when Holmes agreed to Lestrade’s unknowing invitation to help round up the Catton brothers – well, unknowing that Holmes had two cracked ribs, a wrenched wrist, and a long cut on one leg that the good doctor had evidently stitched up not three hours previous, that is. Holmes had insisted on coming anyway, but between Lestrade’s watchful eye and the doctor’s, he’d never really had a chance of getting into further trouble.)   
  
But yes, he’d stick his neck out for Mr Holmes when it came right down to it, as he was doing now. Just as Mr Holmes would do for him – had done, in fact, and more than once, but never more so (at least to his knowledge) than in the matter of the very case the urchin had whispered to him, there outside of Scotland Yard as he was about to leave for the day.  
  
“Mr ‘Olmes thayz Belphegor, an’ come at onthe,” he’d said, a slight lisp blurring his muffled words. “I’ll lead y’to ‘im.”  
  
Lestrade knew no one outside of Mr Holmes and himself could possibly know why that particular word would bring him without fail, even if it meant following a gutter rat to this stinking slum. Oh, some might remember the affair of the twisted street preacher and his gang of toughs who’d instituted a violent, extortionate reign of terror among the prostitutes in a certain part of London. A few might even remember that Lestrade had asked Mr Holmes for his advice on the case. But only they two knew of Belphegor’s ordered attack on Lestrade himself by half a dozen thugs, an assault that might have left him beaten, crippled, or dead – except that Mr Holmes had somehow learned of it. He’d never known the detective was following him in disguise until he’d found himself suddenly dodging blows from two enormous fellows, with several more attempting to close him in, and an ‘old man’ suddenly jumped to his assistance. The athleticism of the counter-attack alone would have tipped off Lestrade to the disguise, even if he hadn’t recognized the familiar stick-work of the fellow wielding the cane to such devastating effect. Between the two of them, they’d won clear, but it had been a near thing, and neither of them emerged unscathed. Mr Holmes raised a beautiful shiner and held his shoulder stiff for a week afterwards, but he’d brushed Lestrade off both times he’d tried to thank him for what he’d done. He clearly didn’t want to be thanked, even seemed somewhat embarrassed by it. So Lestrade had let it go, but he’d never forgotten, not the incident, not Mr Holmes’ reaction to it.  
  
So he knew the situation had to be dire indeed for Mr Holmes to mention it now, however third-hand.  
  
The boy stopped in front of a door set so deeply into the shadowed wall of the alley Lestrade might never have noticed it was there. “’Ere guv. ‘E’z in ‘ere.”  He knocked softly, then scratched the door with a thumbnail before knocking twice more.  
  
The door flew open almost instantly, and a hand beckoned urgently. “Inside, both of you, quickly!”  
  
It was scarcely any brighter inside than it had been in the alley, but the one half-shuttered lantern was enough for Lestrade to recognize Mr. Holmes. He was disheveled, his normally combed back hair limp and drooping, paler than usual, and in desperate need of a shave, but he had that familiar spark in his eyes of a case coming to a crisis-point. He seized Lestrade’s hand in one of his own and squeezed it firmly, a brief, powerful grip. “Thank you for coming. I had hoped that you would.” His voice was hushed, but there was no mistaking the sincerity in it.  
  
Lestrade squeezed back, as much out of surprise as instinct. “Of course, Mr Holmes,” he whispered back, instinctively keeping his own tones as quiet as the detective. “You know I wouldn’t miss. What’s toward? It must be something out of the common way.”  
  
“Oh yes, you could certainly claim that.” He let go of Lestrade’s hand and placed it on the street urchin’s shoulder. “You did well, Charlie. Go on up now; I’ll be right behind you.”  
  
The boy nodded and darted up the stairs, which were the only things visible in the narrow space besides Holmes.  
  
“What is this place, Mr Holmes?”  
  
“At the moment, a refuge.” He started up the stairs, and Lestrade frowned as he saw the taller man limping heavily. “It was a servant’s stairwell for the adjacent building until vagaries of additional construction left it walled off and useless to its original purpose. But nothing is ever wasted in London.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “You’ve heard of Mannering, the anarchist?”  
  
“You mean the market-day bomber?”  
  
“The very one.”  
  
A cold chill raced up Lestrade’s spine, and it was all he could do to keep his voice to a murmur. “I thought he’d blown himself to bits in his last mad outburst three years ago!”  
  
 “That is what he wanted everyone to think, and indeed, his injuries were severe. But he is not dead, and unless we stop him, a very many other people will soon be.” He reached the top of one flight of stairs and lurched unsteadily up another. “At the moment he thinks Watson and myself are fatalities of one of his little creations, which gives us the chance we need to put paid to his plans, and him, once and for all.”  
  
“Dr Watson?” A second chill, much deeper than the first, ran through him. “He’s all right, I hope?”  
  
“A bit worse for wear, but I’ll do, thank you, Inspector.” The doctor’s voice was raspy and strained, and scarcely any louder than Lestrade’s own whisper. Holmes reached the top of the steps and edged aside to lean against one wall, leaving the way clear for Lestrade to see the other man half-reclined on a crude pallet, with the boy crouched behind him, helping prop him up. Dr Watson’s head sported a bloody bandage, and an even more gore-dyed scrap of cloth bound his upper left arm. He leaned over some kind of tube that protruded from the wall. “No sign of anyone else in the alley, Holmes, or of any pursuit.”  
  
“A simple ‘all-clear’ would have sufficed, Watson.” A note of exasperation crept into the detective’s voice along with something not as easily named. “You yourself told me that you should probably speak as little as possible in order to lessen the strain on your chest.”  
  
The doctor merely smiled at his friend and touched his forehead in a silent salute. Mr Holmes threw up his hands in silent exasperation.  
  
Lestrade looked at the two men, battered, bloody, clearly hurting, and equally clearly determined to see this matter through to the end. The light of battle was in their eyes, and though they’d worry over each other, neither would back down, stop, or seek medical assistance, not until Mannering was no longer a threat to innocent lives.  
  
Lestrade nodded once, as much to himself as to the men in the room. “Right. What do you need me to do?”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted January 13, 2014


End file.
